


Brutal Memory

by Merci



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Comfort, Friendship, M/M, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Quiet, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 13:41:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2654096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merci/pseuds/Merci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scars from his near-death experience run deep, and Skwisgaar seeks relief from the memory he doesn’t realize is plaguing him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brutal Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after the first season. Again, this was a bit of writing I’d started, saved, and forgot about for years. Polished it up a few months back and am happy with the outcome now.

_“I will sees you in Valhalska.”_

_“I’ve always… hated you, Skwisgaar.”_

_“I knows, Toki. I knows.”_

The words still played over in his head again and again. He shifted under the warm fur blanket, accidentally kicking his bedmate and making her groan in her sleep.

_“I’ve always…”_

The Swede rolled over, resting the back of his hand on his forehead. “Ugh, stupids dreams…” he muttered, staring blankly at the dark ceiling. It was ridiculous; he’d only fallen asleep for 10 minutes – 30 tops – and his subconscious immediately dove into nightmares. Memories of the man in the steel mask looming over them, ready to kill them. His life was flashing before his eyes, and by his side was Toki.

The pale man tried to shut his eyes, but gave up when his mind refused to let the thought go. He looked over to his bedmate, her fading red hair peeking from beneath the covers and dusting the white pillowcase. The guitarist slipped a foot out from beneath the covers, guiding it to the floor as his long leg followed out into the cold room. Skwisgaar Skwigelf felt restless and entirely too sober. With the memories of his last moments still plaguing him, he wondered if the attack was affecting him more than he knew.

_“Hates you, Skwisgaar.”_

_“I knows…”_

Either way he couldn't sleep and needed something to distract himself - booze was preferable.

The guitarist walked down the empty halls of Mordhaus, pulling at the loose pants that hung off his hips. It was too early for anybody else to be awake – fuck, HE shouldn’t have been awake. He had picked his bedmate on a whim; slightly graying, meaty enough for handholds. He’d fucked her, just like all the others, and like all his past conquests she had just lied there emoting about how wonderful he was.

Words like that usually calmed him with the dull thrum of habit and familiarity. They were the music that accompanied the fucking, erasing the thoughts in his mind that grated against the romantic atmosphere. Yes, they all said sweet things and he didn’t feel bad afterwards. He never felt bad after bedding them, and would just grab his guitar and play and play until his fingers ached and the callouses threatened to peel. But this time, the hollow praise had done nothing for him. He felt off and there was something hurting him, the same ache he felt whenever inebriation, sex, or his guitar weren’t there to distract him. His bare feet skidded to a halt as he slid into the kitchen and he buried his face in his hand; he’d forgotten the guitar back in his room.

He’d left his beloved Gibson in its stand at the foot of his bed, ready to play when he was done fucking. He had been distracted by his dream and forgotten to pick it up on the way out. “Oh, dis is dildos,” he muttered, looking back the way he’d come and considering going back for the instrument. The dark passage seemed to close in and he shrugged, deciding there was booze in the fridge that would take the edge off.

He dug around behind cartons of eggs and other ingredients that Jean-Pierre used to feed them. He clasped his fingers around a familiar shape and withdrew a bottle of wine. The French chef may have been saving it for cooking, but Skwisgaar didn’t care and popped the cork, lifting the rim to his mouth.

The smooth taste flooded his pallet with a sweet flavour. “What is dis, berries?” he wrenched the bottle away with a scowl to look at the label for the first time. “Ugh, stupids Toki would like dis. Too sweets,” he returned the bottle to its home in the fridge and turned, ready to scour the cupboards. “Stupids Toki…” he said the words to fill the space in his head, his thoughts were tumbling together with the ache of sobriety and hollow pain in his chest. “Toki...”

The youngest member of their band was no-doubt sleeping soundly and peacefully. Since they’d come back, Toki hadn’t said one word about how close they’d come to death. He hadn’t even acknowledged the fact that Skwisgaar – in a moment of weakness – had said he thought the younger guitarist was worthy to go up to Valhalla with him. Afterwards, he’d cringed at that statement, but at the time, with death looming over them, it had been the truth. He hoped Toki would go to Valhalla with him… everyone else there might be dildoes.

Skwisgaar’s feet ghosted over the bare floors of Mordhaus, his fingers twitching, unsure of what to do without his guitar and he dug through the hiding places he tucked his emergency booze. He moved with increasing urgency from the hall closet, to the recreation room, throwing towels and pillows to reveal the empty booze caches. He was running out of places to look, and he cursed his bandmates for having taken his booze and not replacing it. He considered sneaking into Pickles’ room to dig around for something – the drummer was in all likelihood unconscious and wouldn’t notice or care – but he slowed when he neared a bend in the hallway where large, cathedral-style windows flooded the hall with pale moonlight. He’d never stopped to notice, but then again, Skwisgaar was rarely sober, and it struck him as beautiful and… sad.

The guitarist approached and looked out, feeling the familiar melancholy pick at his brain and he exhaled. “This is such… Tokis?”

Like before, the name escaped him as he saw the young rhythm guitarist through the window. He was on one of the mansion’s many balconies. Toki’s hair looked as if he’d slept on it funny, and his bedclothes clung to his well-formed body in a way Skwisgaar sometimes envied. He leaned on the balcony railing, his face tilted up to the sky.

Skwisgaar watched Toki through the glass and he was tempted to ask if he could share some alcohol, but the closer Skwisgaar moved to Toki, the more unnerved he felt. There was something… serene about Toki in that moment, and Skwisgaar’s fingers twitched with increased nerves. He was too sober for this, and turned to leave.

“Hello, Skwisgaar,” Toki’s voice cut through the silence.

His name seemed to shine a spotlight on the Swede and he froze as he tried to sneak by the balcony entrance. He looked at the other man with as much indifference as he could muster. “How did you know I was here?” he asked, leaning casually against the frame and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I could hear you,” Toki simply replied. He didn’t turn to look at the other man. He didn’t shift his posture at all. He seemed locked in an upward glance at something burning in the sky.

“Huh,” Skwisgaar grunted and watched him a moment longer before following Toki’s gaze. The air was crisp and cool, with the last tendrils of winter swirling about the melting snow that dotted the grounds. Above them the sky was clear and dark, and Skwisgaar could see the stars bright and sharp overhead.

Suddenly, he was hit with a sense of déjà vu and his nightmare flooded back into his mind. Death was all around them. Explosions, screaming klokateers, and the man with the metal mask... He’d climbed from his escape pod, only to land in the snow beside Toki. That man was above them, intent to kill… There were no klokateers to save them that time. Nobody to jump in front of the weapon and die for them. Skwisgaar felt his lips moving then. “I will see you…” his gaze found the sky and the enormity of it seemed to entrap him there. The stars were bright and sharp overhead while the air was crisp and cool on his skin. Winter swirled about him and he looked to his bandmate.

“Tonight…” Toki said, drawing Skwisgaar back to the present and the balcony under the stars. “Tonight reminds me of _that_ night.” He shuddered visibly and drew his arms around himself.

Normally, Skwisgaar would have some comment to pick away at Toki’s vulnerability, but it was weak in his mind and overshadowed by the similar shuddering feeling in his own psyche. He looked up to the sky again and could imagine the stars blotted out by death. “I knows it does, Tokis,” he murmured and drew close to the railing.

They didn’t say anything for a long time, before Toki seemed to gather himself and give Skwisgaar a half-smile. “Maybe we have the posts traumaticks disorders?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep well, either, Tokis,” Skwisgaar said, absently putting a hand on the other man’s shoulder. He squeezed hard before he realized what he’d done. Toki seemed to relax under his touch and he decided to not pull away.

“Tokis, did…did you mean what you said that night?” Skwisgaar asked, feeling so naked and vulnerable, but he had to know. “About always hating me?”

Toki’s demeanour seemed to change in a flash and he was smiling smugly. “About hatings you? No, I don’t _always_ hates you, Skwisgaar. Only when you are being dildoes.” He pretended to think for a moment before adding, “but you acts like that a lot of the times, so it just _feels_ like always.”

“Idiot,” Skwisgaar pulled his hand back, but Toki grabbed it tight then, his smug face dropping all pretenses.

“I’m just kiddings,” Toki quickly said. “Did you means what _you_ saids? About Valhalska?” His eyes were wide, and Skwisgaar paused. Did he mean it? Toki reminded Skwisgaar of the annoying little brother he’d never had. Always tailing him around and copying him. Children didn’t make it to Valhalla, but he knew there was a side to Toki he didn’t see often, but was powerful, dangerous, and terrifying. A side that said Toki could take care of himself if he was pushed to his limits. A vicious juggernaut that tore apart his enemies and reveled in their blood.

“Yeah,” Skwisgaar said, feeling his mood brighten when he saw Toki smile. “I’d want you to come to Valhalska with me.”


End file.
